


Idyllic Monologues 

By 

Madison Cawein 



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IDYLLIC MONOLOGUES 
Poems by Madison Cawein 



OLD AND NEW WORLD VERSES 

BY THE AUTHOR OF 

"Undertones" "Garden of Dreams" 



John P. Morton and Company 
Publishers »» Louisville, Kentucky 

Gopvj 2 ^* 



r. CO? 
1098. 



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Copyrighted 1898 
BY MADISON CAWEIN 



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TO 

MY FRIEND: 

R. E. LEE GIBSON 



THIS collection of poems is entirely new with the exception of three 
or four which appeared in two earlier volumes, published some 
ten years ago. The reprinted poems have been carefully re-written, 
and so changed throughout as to hardly bear any resemblance, except 
that of subject, to the original. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Brothers i 

Geraldine 15 

The Moated Manse 20 

The Forester 35 

My Lady of Verne 48 

An Old Tale Re-told 55 

The Water Witch 65 

At Nineveh 70 

How They Brought Aid to Bryan's Station. . 72 

On the Jellico Spur of the Cumberlands .... 77 

A Confession 83 

Lilith 84 

Content 86 

Berrying 88 

To a Pansy-Violet 90 

Heart of my Heart 93 



Contents 



PAGE 



Witnesses 94 

Wherefore 95 

Pagan 96 

■ The Fathers of our Fathers " 97 

' Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin " 99 

Her Vivien Eyes 101 

There was a Rose 102 

The Artist 103 

Poetry and Philosophy 103 

' Quo Vadis " 104 

To a Critic 105 



FOREWORD. 

And one, perchance, will read and sigh : 
" What aimless songs ! Why will he sing 
Of nature that drags out her woe 
Through wind and rain, and sun, and snow, 
From miserable spring to spring ? " 
Then put me by. 

And one, perhaps, will read and say : 
" Why write of things across the sea ; 
Of men and women, far and near, 
When we of things at home would hear — 
Well, who would call this poetry ? " 
Then toss away. 

A hopeless task have we, me seems, 
At this late day ; whom fate hath made 
Sad, bankrupt heirs of song ; who, filled 
With kindred yearnings, try to build 
A tower like theirs, that will not fade, 
Out of our dreams. 



Only One Hundred and Fifty Copies Printed for Private Distribution. 
A Few Copies For Sale. 



IDYLLIC MONOLOGUES 
The Brothers 

NOT far from here, it lies beyond 
That low-hilled belt of woods. We '11 take 
This unused lane where brambles make 
A wall of twilight, and the blond 
Brier-roses pelt the path and flake 
The margin waters of a pond. 

This is its fence — or that which was 

Its fence once — now, rock rolled from rock, 

One tangle of the vine and dock, 

Where bloom the wild petunias ; 

And this its gate, the iron-weeds block, 

Hot with the insects' dusty buzz. 

Two wooden posts, wherefrom has peeled 
The weather-crumbled paint, still rise ; 
Gaunt things — that groan when someone tries 
The gate whose hinges, rust-congealed, 
Snarl open : — on each post still lies 
Its carven lion with a shield. 



The Brother s 



We enter ; and between great rows 
Of locusts winds a grass-grown road ; 
And at its glimmering end, — o'erflowed 
With quiet light, — the white front shows 
Of an old mansion, grand and broad, 
With grave Colonial porticoes. 

Grown thick around it, dark and deep, 
The locust trees make one vast hush ; 
Their brawny branches crowd and crush 
Its very casements, and o'ersweep 
Its rotting roofs ; their tranquil rush 
Haunts all its spacious rooms with sleep. 

Still is it called The Locusts ; though 
None lives here now. A tale 's to tell 
Of some dark thing that here befell ; 
A crime that happened years ago, 
When by its walls, with shot and shell, 
The war swept on and left it so. 

For one black night, within it, shame 
Made revel, while, all here about, 
With prayer or curse or battle-shout, 
Men died and homesteads leapt in flame : 
Then passed the conquering Northern rout, 
And left it silent and the same. 



The Brothers 

Why should I speak of what has been ? 
Or what dark part I played in all ? 
Why ruin sits in porch and hall 
Where pride and gladness once were seen ; 
And why beneath this lichened wall 
The grave of Margaret is green. 

Heart-broken Margaret ! whose fate 
Was sadder yet than his who won 
Her hand — my brother Hamilton — 
Or mine, who learned to know too late ; 
Who learned to know, when all was done, 
And nothing could exonerate. 

To expiate is still my lot, — 
And, like the Ancient Mariner, 
To show to others how things are 
And what I am, still helps me blot 
A little from that crime's red scar, 
That on my soul is branded hot. 

He was my only brother. She 
A sister of my brother's friend. 
They met, and married in the end. 
And I remember well when he 
Brought her rejoicing home, the trend 
Of war moved towards us sullenly. 



The Brothers 



And scarce a year of wedlock when 
Its red arms took him from his bride. 
With lips by hers thrice sanctified 
He left to ride with Morgan's men. 
And I — I never could decide — 
Remained at home. It happened then. 

For days went by. And, oft delayed, 

A letter came of loving word 

Scrawled by some camp-fire, sabre-stirred, 

Or by a pine-knot's fitful aid, 

When in the saddle, armed and spurred 

And booted for some hurried raid. 

Then weeks went by. I do not know 
How long it was before there came, 
Blown from the North, the clarion fame 
Of Morgan, who, with blow on blow, 
Had drawn a line of blood and flame 
From Tennessee to Ohio. 

Then letters ceased ; and days went on. 

No word from him. The war rolled back, 

And in its turgid crimson track 

A rumor grew, like some wild dawn, 

All ominous and red and black, 

With news of our lost Hamilton, 



The Br other s 



That hinted death or capture. Yet 
No thing was sure; till one day, — fed 
By us, — some men rode up who said 
They 'd been with Morgan and had met 
Disaster, and that he was dead, 
My brother. — I and Margaret 

Believed them. Grief was ours too : 
But mine was more for her than him ; 
Grief, that her eyes with tears were dim ; 
Grief, that became the avenue 
For love, who crowned the sombre brim 
Of death's dark cup with rose-red hue. 

In sympathy, — unconsciously 

Though it be given — I hold, doth dwell 

The germ of love that time shall swell 

To blossom. Sooner then in me — 

When close relations so befell — 

That love should spring from sympathy. 

Our similar tastes and mutual bents 
Combined to make us intimates 
From our first meeting. Different states 
Of interest then our temperaments 
Begot. Then friendship, that abates 
No love, whose self it represents. 



The Brothers 



These led to talks and dreams : how oft 
We sat at some wide window while 
The sun sank o'er the hills' far file, 
Serene ; and of the cloud aloft 
Made one vast rose ; and mile on mile 
Of firmament grew sad and soft. 

And all in harmony with these 

Dim clemencies of dusk, afar 

Our talks and dreams went ; while the star 

Of evening brightened o'er the trees : 

We spoke of home ; the end of war : 

We dreamed of life and love and peace. 

How on our walks in listening lanes 

Or confidences of the wood, 

We paused to hear the dove that cooed ; 

Or gathered wild-flowers, taking pains 

To find the fairest ; or her hood 

Filled with wild fruit that left deep stains. 

No echo of the drum or fife, 

No hint of conflict entered in 

Our thoughts then. Will you call it sin — 

Indifference to a nation's strife ? 

What side might lose, what side might win, 

Both immaterial to our life. 



The Brothers 



Into the past we did not look ; 
Beyond what was we did not dream ; 
While onward rushed the thunderous stream 
Of war, that, in its torrent, took 
One of our own. No crimson gleam 
Of its wild course around us shook. 

At last we knew. And when we learned 

How he had fallen, Margaret 

Wept ; and, albeit my eyes were wet, 

Within my soul I half discerned 

A joy that mingled with regret, 

A grief that to relief was turned. 

As time went on and confidence 
Drew us more strongly each to each, 
Why did no intimation reach 
Its warning hand into the dense 
Soul-silence, and confuse the speech 
Of love's unbroken eloquence ! 

But, no ! no hint to turn the poise, 
Or check the impulse of our youth ; 
To chill it with the living truth 
As with the awe of God's own voice ; 
No hint, to make our hope uncouth ; 
No word, to warn us from our choice. 



The Brothers 

To me a wall seemed overthrown 
That social law had raised between ; 
And o'er its ruin, broad and green 
A path went, I possessed alone ; 
The sky above seemed all serene ; 
The land around seemed all my own. 

What shall I say of Margaret 

To justify her part in this ? 

That her young heart was never his ? 

But had been mine since first we met ? 

So would you say ! — Enough it is 

That when he left she loved him yet. 

So passed the Spring, and Summer sped ; 
And early Autumn brought the day 
When she her hand in mine should lay, 
And I should take her hand and wed. 
And still no hint that might gainsay, 
No warning word of quick or dead. 

The day arrived ; and, with it born, 
A battle, sullying the East 
With boom of cannon, that increased, 
And throb of musket and of horn : 
Until at last, towards dusk, it ceased ; 
And men with faces wild and worn, 



8 



The Brothers 



In fierce retreat swept past ; now groups ; 

Now one by one ; now sternly white, 

Or blood-stained ; now with looks whose fright 

Said all was lost. Then sullen troops 

That, beaten, still kept up the fight. 

Then came the victors ; shadowy loops 

Of men and horse, that left a crowd 

Of officers in hall and porch 

While through the land around the torch 
Circled, and many a fiery cloud 
Marked out the army's iron march 
In furrows red, that pillage plowed, 

Here we were wedded. — Ask the years 

How such could be, while over us 

A sword of wrath swung ominous, 

And on our cheeks its breath was fierce ! 

All I remember is — 'twas thus, 

And Margaret's eyes were wet with tears. 

No other cause my memory sees 
Save this, that night was set ; and when 
I found my home filled with armed men 
With whom were all my sympathies 
Of Union — why postpone it then ? 
So argued conscience into peace. 



The Brothers 



And then it was, when night had passed 
There came to me an orderly 
With word of a confederate spy 
Late taken, who, with head downcast, 
Had asked one favor, this : << That I 
Would see him ere he breathed his last." 

I stand alone here. Heavily 

My thoughts go back. Had I not gone, 

The dead had still been dead ! — for none 

Had yet believed his story — he, 

My dead-deemed brother, Hamilton, 

Who in the spy confronted me. 

you who never have been tried, 
How can you judge me ! — in my place 

1 saw him standing — who can trace 

My heart thoughts then ! — I turned aside, 
A thing of some unnatural race, 
And did not speak ; and so he died. 

In hospital or prison, when 
It was he lay ; what had forbid 
His home return so long : amid 
What hardships he had suffered, then 
I dared not ask ; and when I did, 
Long afterwards, inquire of men, 



10 



The Brothers 



No thing I learned. But this I feel — 

He who had so returned to life 

Was not a spy. Through stress and strife, — 

This makes my conscience hard to heal ! — 

He had escaped ; he sought his wife ; 

He sought his home that should conceal. 

And Margaret ! Oh, pity her ! 
A criminal I sought her side, 
Still thinking love was justified 
In all for her — whatever were 
The price, a brother thrice denied, 
Or thrice a brother's murderer. 

Since then long years have passed away. 
And through those years, perhaps, you '11 ask 
How to the world I wore my mask 
Of honesty ? — I can but say 
Beyond my powers it was a task ; 
Before my time it turned me gray. 

And when at last the ceaseless hiss 
Of conscience drove, and I betrayed 
All to her, she knelt down and prayed, 
Then rose ; and 'twixt us an abyss 
Was opened ; and she seemed to fade 
Out of my life : I came to miss 



The Brothers 



The sweet attentions of a bride : 
For each appealing heart's caress 
In me, her heart assumed a dress 
Of dull indifference ; till denied 
To me was all responsiveness ; 
And then I knew her love had died. 

Ah, had she loaded me, perchance, 
With wild reproach or even hate, 
Such would have helped a hope to wait 
Forgiveness and returned romance ; 
But 'twixt our souls, instead, a gate 
She closed of silent tolerance. 

Yet, 't was for love of her I lent 

My soul to crime ... I question me 

Often, if less entirely 

I 'd loved her, then, in that event, 

She had been justified to see 

The deed alone stand prominent. 

The deed alone ! But love records 
In his own heart, I will aver, 
No depth I did not feel for her 
Beyond the plummet-reach of words : 
And though there may be worthier, 
No truer love this world affords 



12 



The Brothers 



Than mine was, though it could not rise 
Above itself. And so 't was best, 
Perhaps, that she saw manifest 
Its crime, that I, as saw her eyes, 
Might see ; and so, in soul confessed, 
Some life atonement might devise. 

Sadly my heart one comfort keeps, 
That, towards the end, she took my hands 
And said, as one who understands, 
" Had I but seen ! But love that weeps, 
Sees only as its loss commands," 
And sighed. Beneath this stone she sleeps. 

Yes ; I have suffered for that sin ; 
Yet in no instance would I shun 
What I should suffer. Many a one, 
Who heard my tale, has tried to win 
Me to believe that Hamilton 
It was not ; and, though proven kin, 

This had not saved him. Still the stain 

Of the intention — had I erred 

And 't was not he — had writ the word 

Red on my soul that branded Cain ; 

For still my error had incurred 

The fact of guilt that would remain. 



13 



The Brothers 

Ah, love at best is insecure, 

And lives with doubt and vain regret ; 

And hope and faith, with faces set 

Upon the past, are never sure ; 

And through their fever, grief, and fret 

The heart may fail that should endure. 

For in ourselves, however blend 

The passions that make heaven and hell, 

Is evil not accountable 

For most the good we comprehend ? 

And through these two, or ill, or well, 

Man must evolve his spiritual end. 

It is with deeds that we must ask 
Forgiveness ; for upon this earth, 
Life walks alone from very birth 
With death, hope tells us is a mask 
For life beyond of vaster worth, 
Where sin no more sets love a task. 



14 



Geraldine 



iH, Geraldine, lost Geraldine, 
AA That night of love, when first we met, 

You have forgotten, Geraldine — 
I never dreamed you would forget. 

Ah, Geraldine, sweet Geraldine, 
More lovely than that Asian queen, 
Scheherazade, the beautiful, 
Who in her orient palace cool 
Of India, for a thousand nights 
And one, beside her monarch lay, 
Telling — while sandal-scented lights 
And music stole the soul away — 
Love tales of old Arabia, 
Full of enchantments and emprise — 
But no enchantments like your eyes. 

Ah, Geraldine, loved Geraldine, 

More lovely than those maids, I ween, 

Pampinea and Lauretta, who, 

In gardens old of dusk and dew, 

Sat with their lovers, maid and man, 

In stately days Italian, 

And in quaint stories, that we know 

Through grace of good Boccaccio, 

Told of fond loves, some false, some true, — 

But, Geraldine, none false as you. 



15 



Geraldine 



Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine, 
That night of love, when first we met, 
You have forgotten, Geraldine — 
I never dreamed you would forget. 

9 T was summer, and the moon swam high, 
A great pale pearl within the sky : 
And down that purple night of love 
The stars, concurrent spark on spark, 
Seemed fiery moths that swarmed above : 
And through the roses, o'er the park, 
Star-like the fire-flies filled the dark : 
A mocking-bird in some deep tree, 
Drowsy with dreams and melody, 
Like a magnolia bud, that, dim, 
Opens and pours its soul in musk, 
Gave to the moonlight and the dusk 
Its heart's pure song, its evening hymn. 
Oh, night of love ! when in the dance 
Your heart thrilled rapture into mine, 
As in a state of necromance 
A mortal hears a voice divine. 
Oh, night of love ! when from your glance 
I drank sweet death as men drink wine. 

You wearied of the waltz at last. 

I led you out into the night. 

Warm in my hand I held yours fast. 



16 



Geraldine 

Your face was flushed ; your eyes were bright. 

The moon hung like a shell of light 

Above the lake, above the trees : 

And borne to us with fragrances 

Of roses that were ripe to fall, 

The soul of music from the hall 

Beat in the moonlight and the breeze, 

As youth's wild heart grown weary of 

Desire and its dream of love. 

I held your arm and, for awhile, 

We walked along the balmy aisle 

Of flowers that, like velvet, dips 

Unto the lake which lilies tile 

Like stars ; and hyacinths, like strips 

Of heaven : and beside a fall, 

That, down a ferned and mossy wall, 

Fell in the lake, — deep, woodbine-wound, 

A latticed summer-house we found ; 

A green kiosk, — through which the sound 

Of waters and of breezes swayed, 

And honeysuckle bugles played 

Soft serenades of perfume sweet, — 

Around which ran a rustic seat. 

And seated in that haunted nook, — 

I know not how it was, — a word, 

A touch, perhaps, a sigh, a look, 

Was father to the kiss I took ; 



17 



Geraldine 



Great things grow out of small I 've heard. 

And then it was I took between 

My hands your face, loved Geraldine, 

And gazed into your eyes, and told 

The story ever new though old. 

You did not look away, but met 

My eyes with eyes whose lids were wet 

With tears of truth ; and you did lean 

Your cheek to mine, sweet Geraldine, — 

I never dreamed you would forget. 

The night-wind and the water sighed : 
And through the leaves, that stirred above, 
The moonbeams swooned with music of 
The dance — soft things in league with love : 
I never dreamed that you had lied. 

How all comes back now, Geraldine ! 

The melody ; the glimmering scene ; 

Your angel face ; and ev'n, between 

Your lawny breasts, the heart-shaped jewel, - 

To which your breath gave fluctuant fuel, — 

A rosy star of stormy fire ; 

The snowy drift of your attire, 

Lace-deep and fragrant : and your hair, 

Disordered in the dance, held back 

By one gemmed pin, — a moonbeam there, 

Half -drowned within its night-like black. — 



18 



G era I dine 



And I who sat beside you then, 
Seemed blessed above all mortal men. 

I loved you for the way you sighed ; 
The way you said, " I love but you ; " 
The smile with which your lips replied ; 
Your lips, that from my bosom drew 
The soul ; your looks, like undenied 
Caresses, that seemed naught but true : 
I loved you for the violet scent 
That clung about you as a flower ; 
Your moods, where shine and shadow blent, 
An April-tide of sun and shower ; 
You were my creed, my testament, 
Wherein I read of God's high power. 

Was it because the loving see 
Only what they desire shall be 
There in the well-beloved's soul, 
Affection and affinity, 
That I beheld in you the whole 
Of my love's image ? and believed 
You loved as I did ? nor perceived 
'Twas but a mask, a mockery ! 

Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine, 
That night of love, when first we met, 
You have forgotten, Geraldine — 
I never dreamed you would forget. 

19 



The Moated Manse 



i. 

AND now once more we stood within the walls 
r^L Of her old manor near the riverside ; 

Dead leaves lay rotting in its empty halls, 
And here and there the ivy could not hide 
The year-old scars, made by the Royalists' balls, 
Around the doorway, where so many died 
In that last effort to defend the stair, 
When Rupert, like a demon, entered there. 

II. 

The basest Cavalier who yet wore spurs 

Or drew a sword, I count him ; with his grave 

Eyes 'neath his plumed hat like a wolf's whom curs 

Rouse, to their harm, within a forest cave ; 

And hair like harvest ; and a voice like verse 

For smoothness. Ay, a handsome man and brave ! 

Brave ? — who would question it ! although 't is true 

He warred with one weak woman and her few. 



III. 

Lady Isolda of the Moated Manse, 
Whom here, that very noon, it happened me 
To meet near her old home. A single glance 
Told me 't was she. I marveled much to see 



20 



The Moated Manse 



How lovely still she was ! as fair, perchance, 
As when Red Rupert thrust her brutally, — 
Her long hair loosened, — down the shattered stair, 
And cast her, shrieking, 'mid his followers there. 

IV. 

« < She is for you ! Take her ! I promised it ! 
She is for you ! " — he shouted, as he flung 
Her in their midst. Then, on her poor hands (split, 
And beaten by his dagger when she clung 
Resisting him) and knees, she crept a bit 
Nearer his feet and begged for death. No tongue 
Can tell the way he turned from her and cursed, 
Then bade his men draw lots for which were first. 



I saw it all from that low parapet, 
Where, bullet-wounded in the hip and head, 
I lay face- upward in the whispering wet, 
Exhausted 'mid the dead and left for dead. 
We had held out two days without a let 
Against these bandits. You could trace with red, 
From room to room, how we resisted hard 
Since the great door crashed in to their petard. 



21 



The Moated Manse 



VI. 

The rain revived me, and I leaned with pain 
And saw her lying there, all soiled and splashed 
And miserable ; on her cheek a stain, 
A dull red bruise, made when his hand had dashed 
Her down upon the stones ; the wretched rain 
Dripped from her dark hair ; and her hands were 

gashed. — 
Oh, for a musket or a petronel 
With which to send his devil's soul to hell ! 

VII. 

But helpless there I lay, no weapon near, 
Only the useless sword I could not reach 
His traitor's heart with, while I chafed to hear 
The laugh, the insult and the villain speech 
Of him to her. Oh, God ! could I but clear 
The height between and, hanging like a leech, 
My fingers at his throat, there tear his base 
Vile tongue out, yea, and lash it in his face ! 

VIII. 

But, badly wounded, what could I but weep 
With rage and pity of my helplessness 
And her misfortune ! Could I only creep 
A little nearer so that she might guess 



22 



The Moated Manse 

I was not dead ; that I my life would keep 

But to avenge her ! — Oh, the wild distress 

Of that last moment when, half-dead, I saw 

Them mount and bear her swooning through the shaw. 

IX. 

Long time I lay unconscious. It befell 
Some woodsmen found me, having heard the sound 
Of fighting cease that, for two days, made dell 
And dingle echo ; ventured on the ground 
For plunder ; and it had not then gone well 
With me, I fear, had not their leader found 
That in some way I would repay his care ; 
So bore me to his hut and nursed me there. 



X. 

How roughly kind he was. For weeks I hung 
'Twixt life and death ; health, like a varying, sick, 
And fluttering pendulum, now this way swung, 
Now that, until at last its querulous tick 
Beat out life's usual time, and slowly rung 
The long loud hours that exclaimed, << Be quick ! — 
Arise ! — Go forth! — Hear how her black wrongs call! - 
Make them the salve to cure thy wounds withal ! " 



23 



The Moated Manse 



XL 



They were my balsam : for, ere autumn came, 

Weak still, but over eager to be gone, 

I took my leave of him. A little lame 

From that hip-wound, and somewhat thin and wan, 

I sought the village. Here I heard her name 

And shame's made one. How Rupert passed one dawn, 

And she among his troopers rode — astride 

Like any man — pale-faced and feverish-eyed. 

XII. 

Which way these took they pointed, and I went 
Like fire after. Oh, the thought was good 
That they were on before ! And much it meant 
To know she lived still ; she, whose image stood 
Ever before me, making turbulent 
Each heart-beat with her wrongs, that were fierce food 
Unto my hate that, " Courage ! " cried, " Rest not ! 
Think of her there, and let thy haste be hot ! " 

XIII. 

But months passed by and still I had not found : 
Yet here and there, as wearily I sought, 
I caught some news : how he had held his ground 
Against the Roundhead troops ; or how he 'd fought 



24 



The Moated Manse 

Then fled, returned and conquered. Like a hound, 
Questing a boar, I followed ; but was brought 
Never to see my quarry. Day by day 
It seemed that Satan kept him from my way. 

XIV. 

A woman rode beside him, so they said, 

A fair-faced wanton, mounted like a man — 

Isolda ! — my Isolda ! — better dead, 

Yea, dead and damned ! than thus the courtesan, 

Bold, unreluctant, of such men ! A dread, 

That such should be, unmanned me. Doubt began 

To whisper at my heart. — But I was mad, 

To insult her with such thoughts, whose love I had. 



XV. 



At last one day I rested in a glade 

Near that same woodland which I lay in when 

Sore wounded ; and, while sitting in the shade 

Of an old beach — what ! did I dream, or men 

Like Rupert's own ride near me ? and a maid — 

Isolda or her spirit ! — Wildly then 

I rose and, shouting, leapt upon my horse ; 

Unsheathed my sword and rode across their course. 



25 



The Moated Manse 



XVI. 

Mainly I looked for Rupert, and by name 
Challenged him forth : — " Dog ! dost thou hide 

behind ? — 
Insulter of women ! Coward ! save where shame 
And rapine call thee ! God at last is kind, 
And my sword waits ! " — Like an upbeating flame, 
My voice rose to a windy shout ; and blind 
I seemed to sit, till, with an outstretched hand, 
Isolda rode before me from that band. 

XVII. 

Gerald ! " she cried ; not as a heart surprised 
With gladness that the loved, deemed dead, still lives ; 
But like the heart that long hath realized 
Only misfortune and to fortune gives 
No confidence, though it be recognized 
As good. She spoke : " Lo, we are fugitives. 
Rupert is slain. And I am going home." 
Then like a child asked simply, < « Wilt thou 
come ? . . . 

XVIII. 

' Oh, I have suffered, Gerald, oh, my God ! 
What shame, what vileness ! Once my soul was clean — 
Stained and denied behold it ! — I have trod 
Sad ways of hell and horror. I have seen 



26 



The Moated Manse 



And lived all depths of lust. Yet, oh, my God ! 
Blameless I hold myself of what hath been, 
Though through it all, yea, this thou too must know, 
I loved him ! my betrayer and thy foe ! " 

XIX. 

Sobbing she spoke as if but half awake, 

Her eyes far-fixed beyond me, far beyond 

All hope of mine. — So it was for his sake, 

His love, that she had suffered ! . . . blind and fond, 

For what return ! . . . And I to nurse a snake, 

And never dream its nature would respond 

With some such fang of venom ! 'T was for this 

That I had ventured all, to find her his ! 

XX. 

At first half-stunned I stood ; then blood and brain, 
Like two stern judges, who had slept, awoke, 
Rose up and thundered, " Slay her ! " Every vein 
And nerve responded, " Slay her at a stroke ! " — 
And I had done it, but my heart again, 
Like a strong captain in a tumult, spoke, 
And the fierce discord fell. And quietly 
I sheathed my sword and said, " I '11 go with thee," 



27 



The Moated Manse 



XXI. 

But this was my reward for all I 'd borne, 
My loyalty and love ! To see her eyes 
Hollow from tears for him ; her pale cheeks worn 
With grief for him ; to know them all for lies. 
Her vows of faith to me ; to come forlorn, 
Where I had hoped to come on Paradise, 
On Hell's black gulf ; and, as if not enough, 
Soiled as she was and outcast, still to love ! 

XXII. 

Then rode one ruffian from the rest, clay-flecked 

From spur to plume with hurry ; seized my rein, 

And — « < What art thou, " demanded, ' « who hast checked 

Our way, and challenged ?" — Then, with some disdain, 

Isolda, ' ' Sir, my kinsman did expect 

Your captain here. What honor may remain 

To me I pledge for him. Hold off thy hands ! 

He but attends me to the Moated Manse." 

XXIII. 

We rode in silence. And at twilight came 
Into the Moated Manse. — Great clouds had grown 
Up in the West, on which the sunset's flame 
Lay like the hand of slaughter. — Very lone 



28 



The Moated Manse 

Its rooms and halls : a splintered door that, lame, 
Swung on one hinge ; a cabinet o'erthrown ; 
Or arras torn ; or blood-stain turning wan, 
Showed us the way the battle once had gone. 

XXIV. 

We reached the tower-chamber towards the West, 
In which on that dark day she thought to hide 
From Rupert when, at last, 't was manifest 
We could not hold the Manse. There was no pride 
In her deep eyes now ; nor did scorn invest 
Her with such dignity as once defied 
Him bursting in to find her standing here 
Prepared to die like some dog-hunted deer. 

XXV. 

She took my hand, and, as if naught of love 
Had ever been between us, said, — "All know 
The madness of that day when with his glove 
He struck then slew my brother, and brought woe 
On all our house ; and thou, incensed above 
The rest, came here, and made my foe thy foe. 
But he had left. 'T was then I promised thee 
My hand, but, ah ! my heart was gone from me. 



29 



The Moated Manse 



XXVI. 

' « Yea, he had won me, this same Rupert, when 
He was our guest. — Thou know'st how gallantry 
And beauty can make heroes of all men 
To us weak women ! — And so secretly 
I vowed to be his wife. It happened then 
My brother found him in some villainy ; 
The insult followed ; he was killed . . . and thou 
Dost still remember how I made a vow. 

XXVII. 

< « But still this man pursued me, and I held 
Firm to my vow, albeit I loved him still, 
Unknown to all, with all the love unquelled 
Of first impressions, and against my will. 
At last despair of winning me compelled 
Him to the oath he swore : He would not kill, 
But take me living and would make my life 
A living death. No man should make me wife. 

XXVIII. 

The war, that now consumes us, did, indeed, 
Give him occasion. — I had not been warned, 
When down he came against me in the lead 
Of his marauders. With thy help I scorned 



30 



The Moated Manse 

His mad attacks two days. I would not plead 
Nor parley with him, who came hoofed and horned, 
Like Satan's self in soul, and, with his aid, 
Took this strong house and kept the oath he made. 

XXIX. 

< « Months passed. Alas ! it needs not here to tell 
What often thou hast heard — Of how he led 
His troopers here now there ; nor what befell 
Me of dishonor. Oft I wished me dead, 
Loathing my life, than which the nether hell 
Hath less of horror ... So we fought or fled 
From place to place until a year had passed, 
And Parliament forces hemmed us in at last. 

XXX. 

' Yea, I had only lived for this — to right 
With death my wrongs sometime. And love and hate 
Contended in my bosom when, that night 
Before the fight that should decide our fate, 
I entered where he slept. There was no light 
Save of the stars to see by. Long and late 
I leaned above him there, yet could not kill — 
Hate raised the dagger but love held it still. 



3i 



The Moated Manse 



XXXI. 

■ ' The woman in me conquered. What a slave 
To our emotions are we ! To relent 
At this long-waited moment ! — Wave on wave 
Of pitying weakness swept me, and I bent 
And kissed his face. Then prayed to God ; and gave 
My trust to God ; and left to God th' event. — 
I never looked on Rupert's face again, 
For in that morning's combat — he was slain. 

XXXII. 

« ' Out of defeat escaped some scant three score 
Of all his followers. And night and day 
They fled ; and while the Roundheads pressed them 

sore, 
And in their road, good as a fortress, lay 
The Moated Manse, where their three score or more 
Might well hold out, I pointed them the way. 
And they are come, amid its wrecks to end 
The crime begun here. — Thou must go, my friend ! 

XXXIII. 

* ' Go quickly ! For the time approaches when 
Destruction must arrive. — Oh, well I know 
All thou wouldst say to me. — What boots it then ? — 
I tell thee thou must go, that thou must go ! — 



32 



The Moated Manse 



Yea, dost thou think I 'd have thee die 'mid men 
Like these, for such an one as I ! — No ! no ! — 
Thy life is clean. Thou shalt not cast away 
Thy clean life for my soiled one. Go, I pray ! " 

XXXIV. 

She ceased. I spoke — I know not what it was. 
Then took her hand and kissed it and so said — 
Thou art my promised wife. Thou hast no cause 
That is not mine. I love thee. We will wed. 
I love thee. Come ! " — A moment did she pause, 
Then shook her head and sighed, ■ ' My heart is dead. 
This can not be. Behold, that way is thine. 
I will not let thee share this way that 's mine." 

XXXV. 

Then turning from me ere I could prevent 
Passed like a shadow from the shadowy room, 
Leaving my soul in shadow . . . Naught was meant 
By my sweet flower of love then ! bloom by bloom 
I 'd watched it wither ; then its fragrance went, 
And naught was left now. — It was dark as doom, 
And bells were tolling far off through the rain, 
When from that house I turned my face again. 



33 



The Moated Manse 



xxxvi. 

Then in the night a trumpet ; and the dull 
Close thud of horse and clash of Puritan arms ; 
And glimmering helms swept by me. Sorrowful 
I stood and waited till upon the storm's 
Black breast, the Manse, a burning carbuncle, 
Blazed like a battle-beacon, and alarms 
Of onslaught clanged around it ; then, like one 
Who bears with him God's curse, I galloped on. 



34 



The Forester 



I MET him here at Ammendorf one Spring. 
It was the end of April and the Harz, 
Veined to their ruin- crested summits, seemed 
One pulse of tender green and delicate gold, 
Beneath a heaven that was like the face 
Of girlhood waking into motherhood. 
Along the furrowed meadow, freshly ploughed, 
The patient oxen, loamy to the knees, 
Plodded or lowed or snuffed the fragrant soil ; 
And in each thorntree hedge the wild bird sang 
A song to Spring, made of its own wild heart 
And soul, that heard the dairy-maiden May's 
Heart beating like a star at break of day, 
As, kissing ripe the blossoms, she drew near, 
Her mouth's sweet rose all dew-drops and perfume. 
Here at this inn and underneath this tree 
We took our wine, the morning prismed in its 
Flame-angled gold. — A goodly vintage that ! 
Tang with the ripeness of full twenty years. 
Rare ! I remember ! — wine that spurred the blood, 
That brought the heart glad to the limbered lip, 
And made the eyes unlatticed casements where 
A man's true soul you could not help but see. 
As royal a Rhenish, I will vouch to say, 
As that, old legends tell, which Necromance 
And Magic keep, gnome-guarded, in huge casks 
Of antique make deep in the Kyffhauser, 



35 



The Forester 



The Cellar of the Knights near Sittendorf. — 
So solaced of that wine we sat an hour. 
He told me his intent in coming here. 
His name was Rudolf ; and his native home, 
Franconia ; but no word of parentage : 
Only his mind to don the buff and green 
And live a forester with us and be 
Enfellowed in the Duke of Brunswick's train, 
And for the Duke's estate even now was bound. 

Tall was he for his age and strong and brown, 
And lithe of limb ; and with a face that seemed 
Hope's counterpart — but with the eyes of doubt ; 
Deep restless disks, instinct with gleaming night, 
That seemed to say, " We 're sure of earth, at least 
For some short space, my friend ; but afterward — 
Nay ! ransack not to-morrow till to-day, 
Lest it engulf thy joy before it is ! " — 
And when he spoke, the fire in his eyes 
Worked stealthy as a hunted animal's ; 
Or like the Count von Hackelnburg's that turn, 
Feeling the unseen presence of a fiend. 

Then, as it chanced, old Kurt had come that morn 
With some six of his jerkined foresters 
From the Thuringian forest ; wet with dew, 
And fresh as morn with early travel ; bound 
For Brunswick, Dummburg and the Hakel passed. 
Chief huntsman he then to our lord the Duke, 



36 



The Forester 



And father of the loveliest maiden here 

In Ammendorf, the sunny Ilsabe : 

Her mother dead, the gray-haired father prized 

His daughter more than all that men hold dear ; 

His only happiness, who was beloved 

Of all as Lora of Thuringia was, 

For gentle ways that spoke a noble soul, 

Winning all hearts to love her and to praise, 

As might a great and beautiful thought that holds 

Us by the simplest words. — Her eyes were blue 

As the high influence of a summer day. 

Her hair, — serene and braided over brows 

White as a Harz dove's wing, — was auburn brown, 

And deep as mists the sun has drenched with gold. 

And her young presence — well, 't was like a song, 

A far Tyrolean melody of love, 

Heard on an Alpine path at close of day 

When shepherds homeward lead their tinkling flocks. 

And when she left, being with you awhile, — 

How shall I say it ? — 't was as when one hath 

Beheld an Undine by the moonlit Rhine, 

Who, ere the mind adjusts a thought, is gone, 

And in your soul you wonder if a dream. 

Some thirty years ago it was ; — and I, 
Commissioner of the Duke — (no sinecure 
I can assure you) — had scarce reached the age 
Of thirty, — that we sat here at our wine ; 



37 



The Forester 

And 'twas through me that Rudolf, — whom at first, 

From some rash words dropped then in argument, 

The foresterhood was like to be denied, — 

Was then enfellowed. " Yes," said I, "he's young. 

Kurt, he is young ; but see, a wiry frame ; 

A chamois footing and a face for deeds ; 

An eye that likes me not ; too quick to turn ; 

But that may be the restless soul within ; 

A soul perhaps with virtues that have been 

Severely tried and could not stand the test ; 

These be thy care, Kurt ; and if not too deep 

In vices of the flesh, discover them, 

As divers bring lost riches up from ooze. 

Thou hast a daughter ; let him be thy son." 

A year thereafter was it that I heard 
Of Rudolf's passion for Kurt's Ilsabe ; 
Then their betrothal. And it was from this, — 
Good Mother Mary ! how she haunts me still ! 
Sweet Ilsabe ! whose higher womanhood, 
True as the touchstone which philosophers feign 
Transmutes to gold base metals it may touch, 
Had turned to good all evil in this man, — 
Surmised I of the excellency which 
Refinement of her purer company, 
And contact with her innocence, had resolved 
His fiery nature to, conditioning slave. 
And so I came from Brunswick — as, you know, 



38 



The Forester 



Is custom of the Duke or, by his seal 
Commissioned proxy, his commissioner — 
To test the marksmanship of Rudolf, who 
Succeeded Kurt with marriage of his child, 
An heir of Kuno. — He? — Greatgrandfather 
Of Kurt ; and of this forestkeepership 
The first possessor ; thus established here — 
Or this the tale they tell on winter nights : 

Kuno, once in the Knight of Wippach's train, 
Rode on a grand hunt with the Duke, who came, — 
Grandfather of the father of our Duke, — 
With much magnificence of knights and squires, 
Great velvet-vestured nobles, cloaked and plumed, 
To hunt Thuringian deer. Then morn, — too quick 
To bid good-morrow, — was too slow for these, 
And on the wind-trod hills recumbent yawned 
Disturbed an hour too soon ; all sleepy-eyed, 
Like some young milkmaid whom the cock hath roused, 
Who sits and rubs stiff eyes that still will close. 
Horns sang and deer-hounds tugged a whimpering 

leash, 
Or, loosened, bounded through the baying glens : 
And ere the mountain mists, compact of white, 
Broke wild before the azure spears of day, 
The far-off hunt, that woke the woods to life, 
Seemed but the heart-beat of the ancient hills. 

And then, near noon, within a forest brake, 



39 



The Forester 

The ban-dogs roused a red gigantic stag, 

Lashed to whose back with gnarly-knotted cords, 

And borne along like some pale parasite, 

A man shrieked : tangle-bearded, and wild hair 

A mane of forest-burs. The man himself, 

Emaciated and half-naked from 

The stag's mad flight through headlong rocks and trees, 

One bleeding bruise, with eyes like holes of fire. 

For such the law then : when the peasant chased 

Or slew the dun deer of his tyrant lords, 

If seized, as punishment the withes and spine 

Of some strong stag, a gift to him of game, 

Enough till death — death in the antlered herd, 

Or slow starvation in the haggard hills. 

Then was the great Duke glad, and forthwith cried 

To all his hunting train a rich reward 

For him who slew the stag and saved the man, 

But death for him who slew both man and stag. 

So plunged the hunt after the hurrying slot, 

A shout and glimmer through the sounding woods, — 

Like some mad torrent that the hills have loosed 

With death for goal. — 'T was late ; and none had 

risked 
That shot as yet, — too desperate the risk 
Beside the poor life and a little gold, — 
When this young Kuno, with fierce eyes, wherein 
Hunt and impatience kindled reckless flame, 



40 



The Forester 



Cried, " Has the dew then made our powder wet? 
Or have we left our marksmanship at home ? 
Here's for its heart ! the Fiend direct my ball ! " — 
And fired into a covert deeply packed, 
An intertangled wall of matted night, 
Wherein the eye might vainly strive and strive 
To pierce one fathom, earn one foot beyond. 
But, ha ! the huge stag staggered from the brake 
Hit full i' the heart. And that wan wretch, unbound, 
Was ta'en and cared for. Then his grace, the Duke, 
Charmed with the eagle aim, called Kuno up, 
And there to him and his forever gave 
The forestkeepership. 

But envious tongues 
Were soon at wag ; and whispered went the tale 
Of how the shot was free, and how the balls 
Used by young Kuno were free bullets — which 
To say is : Lead by magic moulded, in 
The influence and directed, of the Fiend. 
Of some effect these tales, and had some force 
Even with the Duke, who lent an ear so far 
As to ordain Kuno's descendants all 
To proof of skill ere their succession to 
The father's office. Kurt himself hath shot 
The silver ring out o' the popinjay's beak — 
A good shot he, you see, who would succeed. 
Of these enchanted bullets let me speak : 



4i 



The Forester 



There may be such ; our Earth has things as strange, 

Perhaps, and stranger, that we doubt not of, 

While we behold, not only 'neath the thatch 

Of Ignorance's hovel, but within 

The pictured halls of Wisdom's palaces, 

How Superstition sits an honored guest. 

A cross-way let it be among the hills ; 
A cross-way in a solitude of pines ; 
And on the lonely cross-way you must draw 
A blood-red circle with a bloody sword ; 
And round the circle, runic characters, 
Gaunt and satanic ; here a skull, and there 
A scythe and cross-bones, and an hour-glass here ; 
And in the centre, fed with coffin-wood, 
Stol'n from the grave of one, a murderer, 
A smouldering fire. Eleven of the clock 
The first ball leaves the mold — the sullen lead 
Mixed with three bullets that have hit their mark, 
And blood, the wounded Sacramental Host 
Stolen, and hence unhallowed, oozed, when shot 
Fixed to a riven pine. Ere twelve o'clock 
With never a word until that hour sound, 
Must all the balls be cast ; and these must be 
In number three and sixty ; three of which 
The Fiend's dark agent, demon Sammael, 
Claims for his master and stamps for his own 
To hit aside their mark, askew for harm. 



42 



The Forester 



The other sixty shall not miss their mark. 

No cry, no word, no whisper, even though 
Vague, gesturing shapes, that loom like moonlit mists, 
Their faces human but with animal forms, 
Rise thick around and threaten to destroy. 
No cry, no word, no whisper should there come, 
Weeping, a wandering shadow like the girl 
You love, or loved, now lost to you, her eyes 
Hollow with tears ; all palely beckoning 
With beautiful arms, or censuring ; her face 
Sad with a desolate love ; who, if you speak 
Or waver from that circle — hideous change ! — 
Shrinks to a wrinkled hag, whose harpy hands 
Shall tear you limb from limb with horrible mirth. 
Nor be deceived if some far midnight bell 
Strike that anticipated hour ; nor leave 
By one short inch the circle, for, unseen 
Though now they be, Hell's minions still are there, 
Watching with flaming eyes to seize your soul. 
But when the hour of midnight sounds, be sure 
You have your bullets, neither more nor less ; 
For if through fear one more or less you have, 
Your soul is forfeit to Hell's majesty.; — 
Then while the hour of midnight strikes, will come 
A noise of galloping hoofs and outriders, 
Shouting ; six midnight steeds, — their nostrils, pits 
Of burning blood, — postilioned, roll a stage, 



43 



The Forester 

Black and with groaning wheels of spinning fire : 
<< Room there ! — ho ! ho ! — who bars the mountain- 
way ? 
On over him ! " — But fear not, nor fare forth ; 
'T is but the last trick of your bounden slave. 
And ere the red moon rushes through the clouds 
And dives again, high the huge leaders leap, 
Their fore-hoofs fire, and their eye-balls flame, 
And, spun a spiral spark into the night, 
Whistling the phantom flies and fades away. 
Some say there comes no stage; that Hackelnburg, 
Wild-huntsman of the Harz, comes dark as storm, 
With rain and wind and demon dogs of Hell, 
The terror of his hunting-horn, an owl, 
And the dim deer he hunts, rush on before ; 
The forests crash, and whirlwinds are the leaves, 
And all the skies a-thunder, as he hurls 
Straight on the circle, horse and hounds and stag. 
And at the last, plutonian-cloaked, there comes, 
Upon a stallion gaunt and lurid black, 
The minister of Satan, Sammael, 
Who greets you, and informs you, and assures. 

Enough ! these wives'-tales told, to what I 've seen: 
To Ammendorf I came ; and Rudolf here 
With Kurt and his assembled men, I met. 
The abundant year, — like some sweet wife, — a-smile 
At her brown baby, Autumn, in her arms, 



44 



The Forester 

Stood 'mid the garnered harvests of her fields 
Dreaming of days that pass like almoners 
Scattering their alms in minted gold of flowers ; 
Of nights, that forest all the skies with stars, 
Wherethrough the moon — bare-bosomed huntress - 

rides, 
One cloud before her like a flying fawn. 
Then I proposed the season's hunt ; till eve 
The test of Rudolf 's skill postponed, at which 
He seemed impatient. And ' t was then I heard 
How he an execrable marksman was ; 
And tales that told of near, incredible shots, 
That missed their mark ; or how his flint-lock oft 
Flashed harmless powder, while the curious deer 
Stood staring ; as in pity of such aim 
Bidding him try his marksmanship again. 
Howbeit, he that day acquitted him 
Of all this gossip ; in that day's long hunt 
Missing no shot, however rashly made 
Or distant through the intercepting trees. 
And the piled, various game brought down of all 
Good marksmen of Kurt's train had not sufficed, 
Doubled, nay, trebled, there to match his heap. 
And marvelling the hunters saw, nor knew 
How to excuse them. My indulgence giv'n, 
Some told me that but yesterday old Kurt 
Had made his daughter weep and Rudolf frown, 



45 



The Forester 



By vowing end to their betrothed love, 

Unless that love developed better aim 

Against the morrow's test ; his ancestors' 

High fame should not be tarnished. So he railed ; 

And bowed his gray head and sat moodily ; 

But looking up, forgave all when he saw 

Tears in his daughter's eyes and Rudolf gone 

Out in the night black with approaching storm. 

Before this inn, yonder and here, they stood, 
The holiday village come to view the trial : 
Fair maidens and their comely mothers with 
Their sweethearts and their husbands. And I marked 
Kurt and his daughter here ; his florid face 
All jubilant at Rudolf 's great success ; 
Hers, radiant with happiness ; for this 
Her marrige eve — so had her father said — 
Should Rudolf come successful from the hunt. 

So pleased was I with what I 'd seen him do, 
The trial of skill superfluous seemed, and so 
Was on the bare brink of announcing, when 
Out of the western heaven's deepening red, — 
Like a white message dropped by rosy lips, — 
A wild dove clove the luminous winds and there, 
Upon that limb, a peaceful moment sat. 
Then I, << Thy rifle, Rudolf ! pierce its head ! " 
Cried pointing, " and chief -forester art thou ! " — 
Why did he falter with a face as strange 



4 6 



The Forester 

As a dark omen ? did his soul foresee 

What was to be with tragic prescience ? — 

What a bad dream it all seems now ! — Again 

I see him aim. Again I hear the cry, 

My dove ! O Rudolf, do not kill my dove ! " 

And from the crowd, like some sweet dove herself, 

A fluttering whiteness, came our Ilsabe — 

Too late ! the rifle cracked . . . The unhurt dove 

Rose, beating frightened wings — but Ilsabe ! . . . 

The sight ! the sight ! . . . lay smitten ; a red stain, 

Sullying the pureness of her bridal bodice, 

Showed where the ball had pierced her through the 

heart. 

And Rudolf ? — Ah, of him you still would know? — 
When he beheld this thing that he had done, 
Why he went mad — I say — but others not. 
An hour he raved of how her life had paid 
For the unholy bullets he had used, 
And how his soul was three times lost and damned. 
I say that he went mad and fled forthwith 
Into the haunted Harz. — Some say, to die 
The prey of demons of the Dummburg ruin. 
I, one of those less superstitious, say, 
He in the Bode — from that blackened rock, — 
Whereon were found his hunting-cap and gun, — 
The Devil's Dancing Place, did leap and die. 



47 



My Lady of Verne 



IT all comes back as the end draws near ; 
All comes back like a tale of old ! 
Shall I tell you all ? Will you lend an ear ? 
You, with your face so stern and cold ; 
You, who have found me dying here . . . 

Lady Leona's villa at Verne — 

You have walked its terraces, where the fount 

And statue gleam and the fluted urn ; 

Its world-old elms, that are avenues gaunt 

Of shadow and flame when the West is a-burn. 

'Tis a lonely region of tarns and trees, 
And hollow hills that circle the West ; 
Haunted of rooks and the far-off sea's 
Immemorial vague unrest ; 
A land of sorrowful memories. 

A gray sad land, where the wind has its will, 
And the sun its way with the fruits and flowers ; 
Where ever the one all night is shrill, 
And ever the other all day brings hours 
Of glimmering silence that dead days fill. 

A gray sad land, where her girlhood grew 

To womanhood proud, that the hill-winds seemed 

To give their heart, like melody, to ; 

And the stars, their soul, like a dream undreamed - 

The only glad thing that the sad land knew. 



4 8 



My Lady of Verne 

My Lady, you know, how nobly born ! 

Haughty of form, with a head that rose 

Like a dream of empire ; love and scorn 

Made haunts of her eyes ; and her lips were bows 

Whence pride imperious flashed flower and thorn. 

And I — oh, I was nobody : one 
Her worshiper only ; who chose to be 
Silent, seeing that love alone 
Was his only badge of nobility, 
Set in his heart's escutcheon. 

How long ago does the springtime look, 

When we wandered away to the hills ! the hills, — 

Like the land in the tale in the fairy-book, — 

Covered with gold of the daffodils, 

And gemmed with the crocus by brae and brook ! 

When I gathered a branch from a hawthorn tree, 
For her hair or bosom, from boughs that hung 
Odorous of heaven and purity ; 
And she thanked me smiling ; then merrily sung, 
Laughingly sung, while she looked at me : — 

' There dwelt a princess over the sea — 

Right fair was she, right fair was she — 
Who loved a squire of low degree, 
But married a king of Brittany — 
Ah, woe is me ! 



49 



My Lady of Verne 

<< And it came to pass on the wedding-day — 
So people say, so people say — 
That they found her dead in her bridal array, 
Dead, and her lover beside her lay — 
Ah, well-away ! 

"A sour stave for your sweets," she said, 
Pressing the blossoms against her lips : 
Then petal by petal the branch she shred, 
Snowing the blooms from her finger-tips, 
Tossing them down for her feet to tread. 

What to her was the look I gave 
Of love despised ! though she seemed to start, 
Seeing, and said, with a quick hand-wave, 
<< Why, one would think that that was your heart," 
While her face with a sudden thought grew grave. 

But I answered nothing. And so to her home 

We came in the twilight ; falling clear, 

With a few first stars and a moon's curved foam, 

Over the hush of meadow and mere, 

Whence the boom of the bittern would often come. 

Would you think that she loved me ? — Who can say? — 

What a riddle unread was she to me ! — 

When I kissed her fingers and turned away 

I wanted to speak, but — what cared she, 

Though her eyes looked soft and she begged me stay ! 



5o 



My Lady of Verne 

Though she lingered to watch me — that might be 

A slim moon- beam or the evening haze, — 

But never my Lady's drapery 

Or wistful face ! — in the ivy maze. . . . 

Leona of Verne — why, what cared she! 

So the days went by, and the Summer wore 

Her hot heart out ; and, a mighty slayer, 

The Autumn harried the land and shore, 

And the world was red with his wrecks ; but grayer 

That land with the ghosts of the nevermore. 

The sheaves of the Summer had long been bound ; 
The harvests of Autumn had long been past ; 
And the snows of the Winter lay deep around, 
When the dark news came and I knew at last ; 
And the reigning woe of my heart was crowned. 

So I sought her here, the young Earl's bride ; 
In the ancient room at the oriel dreaming, 
Pale as the blooms in her hair ; and, wide, 
Her robe's rich satin, flung stormily, gleaming, 
Like shimmering silver, twilight-dyed. 

I marked as I stole to her side that tears 
Were vaguely large in her beautiful eyes ; 
That the loops of pearls on her throat, and years- 
Old lace on her bosom were heaved with sighs ; 
So I spoke what I thought — ''Then, it appears" — 



5i 



My Lady of Verne 

And stopped with, it seemed, my soul in my gaze- 
1 ' That you are not happy, Leona of Verne ? 
There is that at your heart which — well, betrays 
These mocking mummeries. — Live and learn ! — 
And this is the truth that the poet says : — 

' ' I went to my love and I told with my heart, 
In words of the soul, that are silent in speech, 
All of my passion, too sacred for art ; 
But she heard me not — for I could not reach 
Her in that world of which she is part.' — 

"That world, where I saw you as one afar 
Sees palms and waters, and knows that sands, 
Pitiless sands, before him are ; 
Yet follows ever with helpless hands 
Till he sinks at last. — You were my star, 

< < My hope, my heaven ! — I loved you ! . . . Life 
Is less than nothing to me ! " . . . She turned, 
With a wild look, saying — < « Now I am his wife 
You come and tell me ! — Indeed you are learn'd 
In the language of hearts that's unheard ! " . . . 
A Knife, 

As she ceased and leaned on a cabinet, — 
A curve of scintillant steel, keen, cold, — 
Fell icily clashing ; some curio met 
Among Asian antiques, bronze and gold, 
Mystical, curiously graven and set. 

52 



My Lady of Verne 

A Bactrian dagger, whose slighest prick 
Through its ancient poison was death, I knew ; 
If true that she loved me — then ! — And quick 
To the unspoken thought she replied, " 'T is true ! 
I have loved you long, and my soul was sick, 

• Sick for the love that has made me weak, 
Weak to your will even now ! " — And more 
She said, in my arms, that I shall not speak — 
And the dagger there on the polished floor 
Ever her eyes, while she spoke, would seek. 

; And it came to pass on the wedding-day' " — 
Then my lips for a moment were crushed to hers — 

1 That they found her dead in her bridal array,'" 
She sang; then said, "You finish the verse! 
Finish the song, for you know the way." 

And I whispered "yes," for my mind had thought 
Her own thought through — that life were a hell 
To her as to me. — So the blade I caught 
With a sudden hand; and she leaned, and — well, 
What a little wound, and the blood it brought 

To crimson her bosom ! — I set her there 

In that carven chair ; then turned the blade, — 

With its glittering haft one savage glare 

Of gold and jewels, wildly inlaid, — 

To my breast, for the poisonous point rent bare. 



53 



My Lady of Verne 

A stain of blood on her bosom, and one 
Black red o'er my heart. — You see, 'tis good 
To die so for love ! . . . Does the sinking sun, 
Through the dull vast west burst banked with 

blood? — 
Or is it that life will at last have done ? . . . 

So you are her husband? and — well, you see, 

You see she is dead . . . But your face, how white ! 

— Is it with hate or with misery ? — 

What matters it now ! — For, at last, the night 

Falls and the silence covers me. 



54 



An Old Tale Re-told 



FROM the terrace here, where the hills indent, 
You can see the uttermost battlement 
Of the castle there ; the Cliffords' home ; 
Where the seasons go and the seasons come 
And never a footstep else doth fall 
Save the prowling fox's ; the ancient hall 
Echoes no voice save the owlet's call : 
Its turret chambers are homes for the bat ; 
And its courts are tangled and wild to see ; 
And where in the cellar was once the rat, 
The viper and toad move stealthily. 
Long years have passed since the place was burned, 
And he sailed to the wars in France and earned 
The name that he bears of the bold and true 
On his tomb. Long years, since my lord, Sir Hugh, 
Lived ; and I was his favorite page, 
And the thing then happened ; and he of an age 
When a man will love and be loved again, 
Or hie to the wars or a monastery, 
Or toil till he conquer his heart's sore pain, 
Or drink and forget it and finally bury. 

I was his page. And often we fared 
Through the Clare demesnes, in autumn, hawking ; 
If the Baron had known, how they would have glared 
' Neath their bushy brows, those eyes of mocking ! — 
That last of the Strongbows, Richard, I mean — 
And growling some six of his henchmen lean 



55 



An Old Tale Re- to Id 

To mount and after this Clifford and hang 

With his crop-eared page to the nearest oak, 

How he would have cursed us while he spoke ! 

For Clare and Clifford had ever a fang 

In the other's side . . . And I hear the clang 

Of his rage in the hall when the hawker told — 

If he told ! — how we met on the autumn wold 

His daughter, sweet Clara of Clare, the day 

Her hooded tiercel its brails did burst, 

And trailing its jesses, came flying our way — 

An untrained haggard the falconer cursed 

While he tried to secure : — as the eyas flew 

Slant, low and heavily over us, Hugh, — 

Who saw it coming, and had just then cast 

His peregrine hawk at a heron quarry, — 

In his saddle rising, so, as it passed, 

By the jesses caught, and to her did carry, 

Where she stood near the wood. Her face flushed rose 

With the glad of the meeting. No two foes 

Her e3'es and my Lord's, I swear, who saw 

' Twas love from the start. And I heard him speak 

Some words ; then he knelt ; and the sombre shaw, 

With the rust of the autumn waste and bleak, 

Grew spring with her smile, as the hawk she took 

On her lily wrist, where it pruned and shook 

Its ragged wings. Then I saw him seize 

The hand, that she reached to him, long and white, 

As she smilingly bade him rise from his knees — 



56 



An Old Tale Re- to Id 

When he kissed its fingers, her eyes grew bright. 
But her cheeks grew pallid when, lashing through 
The woodland there, with a face a-flare 
With the sting of the wind, and his gipsy hair 
Flying, the falconer came, and two 
Or three of the people of Castle Clare. 
And the leaves of the autumn made a frame 
For the picture there in the morning's flame. 

What was said in that moment, I do not know, 
That moment of meeting, between those lovers ; 
But whatever it was, 'twas whispered low, 
And soft as a leaf that swings and hovers, 
A twinkling gold, when the leaves are yellow. 
And her face with the joy was still aglow, 
When down through the wood that burly fellow 
Came with his frown, and made a pause 
In the pulse of their words. My lord, Sir Hugh, 
Stood with the soil on his knee. No cause 
Had he, but his hanger he partly drew, 
Then clapped it sharp in its sheath again, 
And bowed to my Lady, and strode away ; 
And mounting his horse, with a swinging rein 
Rode with a song in his heart all day. 

He loved and was loved, I knew ; for, look ! 
All other sports for the chase he forsook. 
And strange that he never went to hawk, 



57 



An Old Tale Re- to Id 

Or hunt, but Clara would meet him there 
In the Strongbow forest ! I know the rock, 
With its fern-filled moss, by the bramble lair, 
Were oft and again he met — by chance, 
Shall I say ? — the daughter of Clare ; as fair 
Of face as a queen in an old romance, 
Who waits with her sweet face pale ; her hair 
Night-deep ; and eyes dove-gray with dreams ; — 
By the fountain-side where the statue gleams 
And the moonbeam lolls in the lily white, — 
For the knightly lover who comes at night. 

Heigho ! they ceased, those meetings ; I wot, 
Betrayed to the Baron by some of his crew 
Of menials who followed and saw and knew. 
For she loved too well to have once forgot 
The time and the place of their trysting true. 
i i Why and when ? " would ask Sir Hugh 
In the labored letters he used to lock — 
The lovers' post — in a coigne of that rock. 
She used to answer, but now did not. 
But nearing Yule, love got them again 
A twilight tryst — through forwardness sure ! — 
They met. And that day was gray with rain, 
Or snow : and the wind did ever endure 
A long bleak moaning thorough the wood, 
That chapped i' the cheek and smarted the blood ; 
And a brook in the forest went throb and throb, 



58 



An Old Tale Re- to Id 

And over it all was the wild-beast sob 

Of the rushing boughs like a thing pursued. 

And then it was that he learned how she, 

(God's blood ! how it makes my old limbs quiver 

To think what a miserable tyrant he — 

The Baron Richard — aye and ever 

To his daughter was !) forsooth ! must wed 

With an eastern earl, a Lovell : to whom 

(Would God o' his mercy had struck him dead !) 

Clara of Clare when only a child, — 

With a face like a flower, that blooms in the wild 

Of the hills, and a soul like its soft perfume, — 

Was given ; to seal, or strengthen, some ties 

Of power and wealth — say bartered, then, 

Like the merest chattel. With tearful eyes 

And trembling lips she spoke ; and when 

Her lover, the Clifford, had learned and heard, — 

He'd have had her flee with him then, 'sdeath ! 

In spite of them all ! Let her speak the word, 

They would fly together ; the Baron's men 

Might follow, and if . . . and he touched his sword, 

It should answer ! But she, while she seemed to 

stay, 
With a hand on her bosom, her heart's quick breath, 
Replied to his heat, ' « They would take and slay 
Thee who art life of me ! — No ! not thus 
Shall we fly ! there 's another way for us ; 
A way that is sure ; an only way ; 



59 



An Old Tale Re- to Id 

I have thought it out this many a day." — 
The words that she spoke, how well I remember ! 
As well as the mood o' that day of December, 
That bullied and blustered and seemed in league, 
Like a spiteful shrew, with the wind and snow, 
To drown the words of their sweet intrigue, 
With the boom of the boughs tossed to and fro. 
Her last words these, " By curfew sure, 
On Christmas eve, at the postern door." 

And we were there ; with a led horse too ; 

Armed for a journey I hardly knew 

Whither, but why, you well can guess. 

For often he whispered a certain name, 

The talisman of his happiness, 

That warmed his blood like a yule-log's flame. 

While we waited there, till its owner came, 

We saw how the castle's baronial girth, 

Like a giant's, loosed for reveling more, 

Shone ; and we heard the wassail and mirth 

Where the mistletoe hung in the hearth's red roar, 

And the holly brightened the weaponed wall 

Of ancient oak in the banqueting hall. 

And the spits, I trow, by the scullions turned 

O'er the snoring logs, rich steamed and burned, 

While the whole wild-boar and the deer were roasted, 

And the half of an ox and the roe-buck haunches ; 

While tuns of ale, that the cellars boasted, 



60 



An Old Tale Re- to Id 

And casks of sack, were broached for paunches 

Of vassals who reveled in stable and hall. 

The song of the minstrel ; the yeomen's quarrel 

O'er the dice and the drink ; and the huntsman's bawl 

In the baying kennels, its hounds a-snarl 

O'er the bones of the banquet ; now loud, now low, 

We could hear where we crouched in the drifting 



Was she long ? did she come ? . . . . By the 

postern we 
Like shadows waited. My lord, Sir Hugh, 
Spoke, pointing a tower, ' < That casement, see ? 
When a stealthy light in its slit burns blue 
And signals thrice slowly, thus — 'tis she." 
And close to his breast his gaberdine drew, 
For the wind it whipped and the snow beat through. 
Did she come ? — We had waited an hour or twain, 
When the taper flashed in the central pane, 
And flourished three times and vanished so. 
And under the arch of the postern's portal, 
Holding the horses, we stood in the snow, 
Stiff with the cold. Ah, me ! immortal 
Minutes we waited, breath-bated, and listened 
Shivering there in the hiss of the gale : 
The parapets whistled, the angles glistened, 
And the night around seemed one black wail 
Of death, whose ominous presence over 



61 



An Old Tale Re- to Id 

The stormy battlements seemed to hover. 
Said my lord, Sir Hugh, — to himself he spoke, — 
" She feels for the spring in the sliding panel 
'Neath the arras, hid in the carven oak. 
It opens. The stair, like a well's dark channel, 
Yawns ; and the draught makes her taper slope. 
Wrapped deep in her mantle she stoops, now puts 
One foot on the stair ; now a listening pause 
As nearer and nearer the mad search draws 
Of the thwarted castle. No smallest hope 
That they find her now that the panel shuts ! . . . 
If the wind, that howls like a tortured thing, 
Would throttle itself with itself, then I 
Might hear how her hurrying footsteps ring 
Down the hollow . . . there ! 't is her fingers try 
The postern's bolts that the rust makes cling." — 
But ever some whim of the storm that shook 
A clanging ring or a creaking hook 
In buttress or wall. And we waited, numb 
With the cold, till dawn — but she did not come. 

I must tell you why and have done : 'T is said, 

On the brink of the marriage she fled the side 

Of the guests and the bridegroom there ; she fled 

With a mischievous laugh, — " I '11 hide ! I '11 hide ! 

Seek ! and be sure that you find ! " — so led 

A long search after her ; but defied 

All search for — a score and ten long years. . . . 



62 



An Old Tale Re- to Id 

Well, the laughter of Yule was turned to tears 
For them and for us. We saw the glare 
Of torches that hurried from chamber to stair ; 
And we heard the castle re-echo her name, 
But neither to them nor to us she came. 
And that was the last of Clara of Clare. 

That winter it was, a month thereafter, 

That the home of the Cliffords, roof and rafter, 

Burned. — I could swear 'twas the Strongbow's doing, 

Were I sure that he knew of the Clifford's wooing 

His daughter ; and so, by the Rood and Cross ! 

Had burned Hugh's home to avenge his loss. — 

So over the channel to France with his King, 

The Black Prince, sailed to the wars — to deaden 

The ache of the mystery — Hugh that spring, 

And fell at Poitiers ; for his loss made leaden 

His heart ; and his life was a weary sadness, 

So he flung it away in a moment's madness. 

And the Baron died. And the bridegroom ? — well, 

Unlucky was he in truth ! — to tell 

Of him there is nothing. The Baron died, 

The last of the Strongbows he — gramercy ! 

And the Clare estate with its wealth and pride 

Devolved to the Bloets, Walter and Percy. 

And years went by. And it happened that they 
Ransacked the old castle ; and so, one day, 



63 



An Old Tale Re- to Id 

In a lonesome tower uprummaged a chest, 

From Flanders ; of ebon, and wildly carved 

All over with things : a sinister crest, 

And evil faces, distorted and starved ; 

Fast-locked with a spring, which they forced and, lo ! 

When they opened it — Death, like a lady dressed, 

Grinned up at their terror ! — but no, not so ! 

A skeleton, jeweled and laced, and wreathed 

With flowers of dust ; and a miniver 

Around it clasped, that the ruin sheathed 

Of a once rich raiment of silk and fur. 

I 'd have given my life to hear him tell, 

The courtly Clifford, how this befell ! 

He 'd have known how it was : For, you see, in groping 

For the secret spring of that panel, hoping 

And fearing as nearer and nearer drew 

The search of retainers, why, out she blew 

The tell-tale taper ; and, seeing this chest, 

Would hide her a minute in it, mayhap, 

Till the hurry had passed ; but the death-lock, pressed 

By the lid's great weight, closed fast with a snap, 

Ere her heart was aware of the fiendish trap. 



6 4 



TheWater Witch 



SEE ! the milk-white doe is wounded. 
He will follow as it bounds 
Through the woods. His horn has sounded, 
Echoing, for his men and hounds. 
But no answering bugle blew. 
He has lost his retinue 
For the shapely deer that bounded 
Past him when his bow he drew. 

Not one hound or huntsman follows. 

Through the underbrush and moss 
Goes the slot ; and in the hollows 

Of the hills, that he must cross, 
He has lost it. He must fare 
Over rocks where she-wolves lair ; 
Wood-pools where the wild-boar wallows ; 
So he leaves his good steed there. 

Through his mind then flashed an olden 
Legend told him by the monks : — 

Of a girl, whose hair is golden, 

Haunting fountains and the trunks 

Of the woodland ; who, they say, 

Is a white doe all the day ; 

But when woods are night-enfolden 

Turns into an evil fay. 

65 



The Water Witch 

Then the story oft his teacher 
Told him ; of a mountain lake 

Demons dwell in ; vague of feature, 
Human-like, but each a snake, 

She is queen of. — Did he hear 

Laughter at his startled ear ? 

Or a bird ? And now, what creature 

Is it, or the wind, stirs near ? 

Fever of the hunt. This water, 

Murmuring here, will cool his head. 
Through the forest, fierce as slaughter, 

Slants the sunset ; ruby red 
Are the drops that slip between 
His cupped hands, while on the green, - 
Like the couch of some wild daughter 
Of the forest, — he doth lean. 

But the runnel, bubbling, dripping, 

Seems to bid him to be gone ; 
As with crystal words and tripping 

Steps of sparkle luring on. 
Now a spirit in the rocks 
Calls him ; now a face that mocks, 
From behind some bowlder slipping, 
Laughs at him with lilied locks. 



66 



The Water Witch 



So he follows through the flowers, 

Blue and gold, that blossom there ; 

Thridding twilight-haunted bowers 
Where each ripple seems the bare 

Beauty of white limbs that gleam 

Rosy through the running stream ; 

Or bright-shaken hair, that showers 

Starlight in the sunset's beam. 

Till, far in the forest, sleeping 
Like a luminous darkness, lay 

A deep water, wherein, leaping, 
Fell the Fountain of the Fay, 

With a singing, sighing sound, 

As of spirit things around, 

Musically laughing, weeping 

In the air and underground. 

Not a ripple o'er it merried : 

Like the round moon 'neath a cloud, 
In its rocks the lake lay buried : 

And strange creatures seemed to crowd 
Its dark depths ; vague limbs and eyes 
To the surface seemed to rise 
Spawn-like and, as formless, ferried 
Through the water, shadow-wise. 



6 7 



The JVater Witch 



Foliage things with human faces, 

Demon-dreadful, pale and wild 
As the forms the lightning traces 

On the clouds the storm has piled, 
Seeming now to draw to land, 
Now away — Then up the strand 
Comes a woman ; and she places 
On his arm a spray -white hand. 

Ah ! an untold world of sorrow 

Were her eyes ; her hair, a place 
Whence the moon its gold might borrow ; 

And a dream of ice her face : 
'Round her hair and throat in rims 
Pearls of foam hung ; and through whims 
Of her robe, as breaks the morrow, 
Shone the rose-light of her limbs. 

Who could help but look with gladness 

On such beauty ? though within, 
Deep within the beryl sadness 

Of those eyes, the serpent sin 
Coil ? — When she hath placed her cheek 
Chilly upon his, and weak, 
With love longing and its madness, 
Is his will grown, then she '11 speak : 



68 



The Water JVitch 



' < Dost thou love me ? " — « < If surrender 

Is to love thee, then I love." — 
4 < Hast no fear then ? " — "In the splendor 
Of thy gaze who knows thereof ? 
Yet I fear — I fear to lose 
Thee, thy love ! " — " And thou dost choose 
Aye to be my heart's defender ? " — 
"Take me. I am thine to use." 

"Follow then. Ah, love, no lowly 

Home I give thee." — With fixed eyes, 

To the water's edge she slowly 

Drew him. . . . And he did surmise 

'T was her lips on his, until 

O'er his face the foam closed chill, 

Whisp'ring, and the lake unholy 

Rippled, rippled and was still. 



69 



At Nineveh 



Written for my friend Walter S. Mathews. 

THERE was a princess once, who loved the slave 
Of an Assyrian king, her father ; known 
At Nineveh as Hadria ; o'er whose grave 

The sands of centuries have long been blown ; 
Yet sooner shall the night forget its stars 

Than love her story : — How, unto his throne, 
One day she came, where, with his warriors, 

The king sat in the hall of audience, 
'Mid pillared trophies of barbaric wars, 

And, kneeling to him, asked, " O father, whence 
Comes love and why ? " — He, smiling on her, said, — 

" O Hadria, love is of the gods, and hence 
Divine, is only soul-interpreted. 

But why love is, ah, child, we do not know, 
Unless 'tis love that gives us life when dead." — 

And then his daughter, with a face aglow 
With all the love that clamored in her blood 

Its sweet avowal, lifted arms of snow, 
And, like Aurora's rose, before him stood, 

Saying, — << Since love is of the powers above, 
I love a slave, O Asshur ! Let the good 

The gods have giv'n be sanctioned. Speak not of 
Dishonor and our line's ancestral dead ! 

They are imperial dust. I live and love." — 
Black as black storm then rose the king and said, — 

A lightning gesture at her standing there, — 
<< Enough ! ho, Rhana, strike me off her head ! " 

And at the mandate, with his limbs half bare 
70 



At Nineveh 



A slave strode forth. Majestic was his form 

As some young god's. He, gathering up her hair, 
Wound it three times around his sinewy arm. 

Then drew his sword. It for one moment shone 
A semicircling light, and, dripping warm, 

Lifting the head he stood before the throne. 
Then cried the despot, « « By the horn of Bel ! 

This was no child of mine ! " — Like chiselled stone 
Still stood the slave, a son of Israel. 

Then striding towards the monarch, in his eye 
The wrath of heaven and the hate of hell, 

Shrieked, « « Lust ! I loved her ! look on us and die ! " 
Swifter than fire clove him to the brain. 

Then kissed the dead fair face of her held high, 
And crying, << Judge, O God, between us twain !" 

A thousand daggers in his heart, fell slain. 



7i 



How They Brought Aid to Bryan's Station 



During the siege of Bryan's Station, Kentucky, August 16, 1782, 
Nicholas Tomlinson and Thomas Bell, two inhabitants of the Fort, 
undertook to ride through the besieging Indian and Tory lines to 
Lexington, Ky., for aid. It happened also during this siege that the 
pioneer women of the Fort, when the water supply was exhausted, 
heroically carried water from a spring, at a considerable distance 
outside the palisades of the Station, to its inmates, under the very 
guns of the enemy. 



WITH saddles girt and reins held fast, 
Our rifles well in front, at last 
Tom Bell and I were mounted. 
The gate swung wide. We said, << Good-bye." 
No time for talk had Bell and I. 
One said, << God speed ! " another, " Fly ! " 
Then out we galloped. Live or die, 
We felt each moment counted. 

The trace, the buffaloes had worn, 
Stretched broad before us ; and the corn 

And cane through which it wended, 
We knew for acres from the gate 
Hid Indian guile and Tory hate. 
We rode with hearts that seemed to wait 
For instant death ; and on our fate 
The Station's fate depended. 



72 



Aid to Bryan s Station 

No rifle cracked. No creature stirred, 
As on towards Lexington we spurred 

Unflinchingly together. 
We reached the woods : no savage shout 
Of all the wild Wyandotte rout 
And Shawanese had yet rung out : 
But now and then an Indian scout 

Showed here a face and feather. 

We rode expecting death each stride 
From thicket depth or tree-trunk side, 

Where some red foe might huddle — 
For well we knew that renegade, 
The blood-stained Girty, had not stayed 
His fiends from us, who rode for aid, — 
The dastard he who had betrayed 

The pioneers of Ruddle. 

And when an arrow grazed my hair 
I did not turn, I did not spare 

To spur as men spur warward : 
A war-whoop rang this side a rock : 
Then painted faces swarmed, to block 
Our way, with brandished tomahawk 
And rifle : then a shout, a shock — 

And we again rode forward. 



73 



Aid to Bryan s Station 

They followed ; but 't was no great while 
Before from them by some long mile 

Of forest we were sundered. 
We galloped on. I 'd lost my gun ; 
And Bell, whose girth had come undone, 
Rode saddleless. The summer sun 
Was up when into Lexington 

Side unto side we thundered. 

Too late. For Todd had left that day 
With many men. Decoyed away 

To Hoy's by some false story. 
And we must after. Bryan's needs 
Said, << On ! " although our gallant steeds 
Were blown — Enough ! we must do deeds ! 
Must follow where our duty leads, 

Be it to death or glory. 

The way was wild and often barred 
By trees and rocks ; and it was hard 

To keep our hearts from sinking ; 
But thoughts of those we 'd left behind 
Gave strength to muscle and to mind 
To help us onward through the blind 
Deep woods. And often we would find 

Ourselves of loved ones thinking. 



74 



Aid to Bryan s Station 

The hot stockade. No water left. 
The fierce attack. All hope bereft 

The powder-grimed defender. 
The war-cry and the groan of pain. 
All day the slanting arrow -rain 
Of fire from the corn and cane. 
The stern defence, but all in vain. 

And then at last — surrender. 

But not for Bryan's ! — no ! too well 
Must they remember what befell 

At Ruddle's and take warning. 
So thought we as, all dust and sweat, 
We rode with faces forward set, 
And came to Station Boone while yet 
An hour from noon . . . We had not let 

Our horses rest since morning. 

Here Ellis met us with his men. 
They did not stop nor tarry then, 

That little band of lions ; 
But setting out at once with aid, 
Right well you know how unafraid 
They charged the Indian ambuscade, 
And through a storm of bullets made 

Their entrance into Bryan's. 



75 



Aid to Bryan' s Station 

it 

And that is all I have to tell. 

No more the Huron's hideous yell 

Sounds to assault and slaughter. — 
Perhaps to us some praise is due ; 
But we are men, accustomed to 
Such dangers, which we often woo. 
Much more is due our women who 

Brought to the Station — water. 



7 6 



On the Jellico Spur of the Cumberlands 

TO J. FOX, JR. 

YOU remember how the mist, 
When we climbed to Devil's Den, 
Pearly in the mountain glen, 

And above us, amethyst, 

Throbbed or circled ? then away, 
Through the wildwoods opposite, 
Torn and scattered, morning-lit, 

Vanished into dewy gray ? — 

Vague as in romance we saw, 

From the fog, one riven trunk, 
Talon-like with branches shrunk, 

Thrust a monster dragon claw. 

And we climbed for hours through 
The dawn-dripping Jellicoes, 
To a wooded rock that shows 

Undulating leagues of blue 

Summits ; mountain-chains that lie 
Dark with forests ; bar on bar, 
Ranging their irregular 

Purple peaks beneath a sky 

Soft as slumber. Range on range 
Billow their enormous spines, 
Where the rocks and priestly pines 

Sit eternal, without change. 

77 



On the yellico Spur 

We were sons of Nature then : 

She had taken us to her, 

Signalized by brier and burr, 
Something more to her than men : 
Pupils of her lofty moods, 

From her bloom- anointed looks, 

Wisdom of no man-made books 
Learned we in those solitudes : 
How the seed supplied the flower ; 

How the sapling held the oak ; 

How within the vine awoke 
The wild impulse still to tower ; 
How in fantasy or mirth, 

Springing from her footsteps there, 

Curious fungi everywhere 
Bulged, exuded from the earth ; 
Coral vegetable things, 

That the underworld exhaled, 

Bulbous, crystal-ribbed and scaled, 
Many colored and in rings, 
Like the Indian- Pipe that grew 

Pink and white in loamy cracks, 

Flowers of a natural wax, 
She had turned her fancy to. — 
On that laureled precipice, 

Where the chestnuts dropped their burrs, 

Sweet with balsam of the firs, 



78 



Of the Cumber lands 

First we felt her mother kiss 

Full of heaven and the wind ; 

While the forests, wood on wood, 
Murmured like a multitude 

Giving praise where none hath sinned. — 

Freedom met us there ; we saw 
Freedom giving audience ; 
In her face the eloquence, 

Lightning-like, of love and law : 

Round her, with majestic hips, 

Lay the giant mountains ; there 
Near her, cataracts tossed their hair, 

God and thunder on their lips. — 

Oft an eagle, or a hawk, 
Or a scavenger, we knew 
Winged through altitudes of blue, 

By its shadow on the rock. 

Or a cloud of templed white 
Moved, a lazy berg of pearl, 
Through the sky's pacific swirl, 

Shot with cool cerulean light. 

So we dreamed an hour upon 

That warm rock the lichens mossed, 
While around us foliage tossed 

Coins, gold-minted of the sun : 

Then arose ; and a ravine, 



79 



On the yellico Spur 

Which a torrent once had worn, 
Made our roadway to the corn, 

In the valley, deep and green ; 

And the farm house with its bees, 
Where old-fashioned flowers spun 
Gay rag-carpets in the sun, 

Hid among the apple trees. 

Here we watched the twilight fall ; 
O'er Wolf- Mountain sunset made 
A huge rhododendron rayed 

Round the sun's cloud-centered ball. 

Then through scents of herb and soil, 
To the mining-camp we turned, 
In the twinkling dusk discerned 

With its white-washed homes of toil. 

Ah, those nights ! — We wandered forth 
On some haunted mountain path, 
When the moon was late, and rathe 

The large stars, sowed south and north, 

Splashed with gold the purple skies ; 
And the milky zodiac, 
Rolled athwart the belted black, 

Seemed a path to Paradise. 

And we walked or lingered till, 
In the valley land beneath, 
Like the vapor of a breath 

Breathed in frost, arose the still 



80 



Of the Cumber land s 

Architecture of the mist : 

And the moon-dawn's necromance 
Touched the mist and made it glance 

Like a town of amethyst. 

Then around us, sharp and brusque, 
Night's shrill insects strident strung 
Instruments that buzzed and sung 

Pixy music of the dusk. 

And we seemed to hear soft sighs, 

And hushed steps of ghostly things, 
Fluttered feet or rustled wings, 

Moved before us. Fire-flies, 

Gleaming in the tangled glade, 
Seemed the eyes of warriors 
Stealing under watching stars 

To some midnight ambuscade ; 

To the Indian village there, 

Wigwamed with the mist, that slept 
By the woodland side, whence crept 

Shadowy Shawnees of the air. 

When the moon rose, like a cup 

Lay the valley, brimmed with wine 
Of mesmeric shade and shine, 

To the moon's pale face held up. 

As she rose from out the mines 
Of the eastern darkness, night 
Met her, clad in dewy light 



81 



On the yellico Spur 

'Mid Pine Mountain's sachem pines. 

As from clouds in pearly parts 

Her serene circumference grew, 

Home we turned. And all night through 

Dreamed the dreams of happy hearts. 



82 



A Confession 



THESE are the facts : — I was to blame : 
I brought her here and wrought her shame ; 
She came with me all trustingly. 
Lovely and innocent her face : 
And in her perfect form, the grace 
Of purity and modesty. 

I think I loved her then : 'would dote 
On her ambrosial breast and throat, 
Young as a blossom's tenderness : 
Her eyes, that were both glad and sad : 
Her cheeks and chin, that dimples had : 
Her mouth, red-ripe to kiss and kiss. 

Three months passed by ; three moons of fire ; 

When in me sickened all desire : 

And in its place a devil, — who 

Filled, all my soul with deep disgust, 

And on the victim of my lust 

Turned eyes of loathing, — swiftly grew. 

One night, when by my side she slept, 

I rose : and leaning, while I kept 

The dagger hid, I kissed her hair 

And throat : and, when she smiled asleep, 

Into her heart I drove it deep : 

And left her dead, still smiling there. 



83 



Lilith 



YEA, there are some who always seek 
The love that lasts an hour ; 
And some who in love's language speak, 
Yet never know his power. 

Of such was I, who knew not what 
Sweet mysteries may rise 
Within the heart when 't is its lot 
To love and realize. 

Of such was I, ah me ! till, lo, 

Your face on mine did gleam, 

And changed that world, I used to know, 

Into an evil dream. 

That world wherein, on hill and plain, 
Great blood-red poppies bloomed, 
Their hot hearts thirsty for the rain, 
And sleepily perfumed. 

Above, below, on every part 

A crimson shadow lay, 

As if the red sun streamed athwart 

And sunset was alway. 

I know not how, I know not when, 
I only know that there 
She met me in the haunted glen, 
A poppy in her hair. 



8 4 



Li lith 

Her face seemed fair as Mary's is, 
That knows no sin or wrong ; 
Her presence filled the silences 
As music fills a song. 

And she was clad like the Mother of God, 
As 't were for Christ's sweet sake, 
But when she moved and where she trod 
A hiss went of a snake. 

Though seeming sinless, till I die 
I shall not know for sure 
Why to my soul she seemed a lie 
And otherwise than pure. 

Nor why I kissed her soon and late 
And for her felt desire, 
While loathing of her passion ate 
Into my soul like fire. 

Was it because my soul could tell 
That, like the poppy-flower, 
She had no soul ? a thing of Hell, 
That o'er it had no power. 

Or was it that your love at last 
My soul so long had craved, 
From the sweet sin that held me fast 
At that last moment saved ? 



85 



Content 



WHEN I behold how some pursue 
Fame, that is care's embodiment, 
Or fortune, whose false face looks true,- 
A humble home with sweet content 
Is all I ask for me and you. 

A humble home, where pigeons coo, 
Whose path leads under breezy lines 
Of frosty-berried cedars to 
A gate, one mass of trumpet- vines, 
Is all I ask for me and you. 

A garden, which, all summer through, 
The roses old make redolent, 
And morning-glories, gay of hue, 
And tansy, with its homely scent, 
Is all I ask for me and you. 

An orchard, that the pippins strew, 
From whose bruised gold the juices spring ; 
A vineyard, where the grapes hang blue, 
Wine-big and ripe for vintaging, 
Is all I ask for me and you. 

A lane, that leads to some far view 
Of forest and of fallow-land, 
Bloomed o'er with rose and meadow-rue, 
Each with a bee in its hot hand, 
Is all I ask for me and you. 



86 



Content 

At morn, a pathway deep with dew, 

And birds to vary time and tune ; 

At eve, a sunset avenue, 

And whippoorwills that haunt the moon, 

Is all I ask for me and you. 

Dear heart, with wants so small and few, 
And faith, that 's better far than gold, 
A lowly friend, a child or two, 
To care for us when we are old, 
Is all I ask for me and you. 



87 



Berrying 



MY love went berrying 
Where brooks were merrying 
And wild wings ferrying 
Heaven's amethyst ; 
The wildflowers blessed her, 
My dearest Hester, 
The winds caressed her, 
The sunbeams kissed. 

II. 

I followed, carrying 
Her basket ; varying 
Fond hopes of marrying 

With hopes denied ; 
Both late and early 
She deemed me surly, 
And bowed her curly 

Fair head and sighed : 

III. 

< 1 The skies look lowery ; 
It will be showery ; 
No longer flowery 

The way I find. 
No use in going. 
'T will soon be snowing 
If you keep growing 
Much more unkind." 

88 



B er vying 

IV. 

Then looked up tearfully. 
And I, all fearfully, 
Replied, < < My dear, fully 

Will I explain : 
I love you dearly, 
But look not cheerly 
Since all says clearly 

I love in vain." 



Then smiled she airily ; 
And answered merrily 
With words that — verily 

Made me decide : 
And drawing tow'rd her, 
I there implored her — 
I who adored her — 

To be my bride. 

VI. 

O sweet simplicity 
Of young rusticity, 
Without duplicity, 

Whom love made know, 
That hearts in meter 
Make earth completer ; 
And kisses, sweeter 

Than — berries grow. 

89 



To a Pansy- Violet 

Found Solitary Among the Hills* 

I. 

O PANSY-VIOLET, 
With early April wet, 
How frail and pure you look 
Lost in this glow-worm nook 
Of heaven-holding hills : 
Down which the hurrying rills 
Fling scrolls of melodies : 
O'er which the birds and bees 
Weave gossamers of song, 
Invisible, but strong : 
Sweet music webs they spin 
To snare the spirit in. 

II. 

O pansy-violet, 

Unto your face I set 

My lips, and — do you speak ? 

Or is it but some freak 

Of fancy, love imparts 

Through you unto the heart's 

Desire ? whispering low 

A secret none may know, 

But such as sit and dream 

By forest-side and stream. 

90 



To a Pansy- Violet 



in. 

O pansy-violet, 
O darling floweret, 
Hued like the timid gem 
That stars the diadem 
Of Fay or Sylvan Sprite, 
Who, in the woods, all night 
Is busy with the blooms, 
Young leaves and wild perfumes, 
Through you I seem t' have seen 
All that such dreams may mean. 

IV. 

O pansy-violet, 

Long, long ago we met — 

'T was in a Fairy-tale : 

Two children in a vale 

Sat underneath glad stars, 

Far from the world of wars ; 

Each loved the other well : 

Her eyes were like the spell 

Of dusk and dawning skies — 

The purple dark that dyes 

The midnight : his were blue 

As heaven the day shines through. 



9i 



To a Pansy- Violet 
v. 

O pansy-violet, 
What is this vague regret, 
This yearning, so like tears, 
That touches through the years 
Long past, when Myth and Fable 
In all strange things were able 
To beautify the Earth, 
Things of immortal worth ? — 
This longing, that to me 
Is like a memory 
Lived long ago, of those 
Fair children who, it knows, 
Loved with no mortal love ; 
Whom smiling heaven above 
Fostered, and when they died 
Laid side by loving side. 

VI. 

pansy-violet, 

1 dream, remembering yet 
A wood-god-guarded tomb, 
Out of whose moss a bloom 
Sprang, with three petals wan 
As are the eyes of dawn ; 
And two as darkly deep 

As are the eyes of sleep. — 

92 



To a P ansy- Violet 

O flower, — that seems to hold 

Some memory of old, 

A hope, a happiness, 

At which I can but guess, — 

You are a sign to me 

Of immortality : 

Through you my spirit sees 

The deathless purposes 

Of death, that still evolves 

The beauty it resolves ; 

The change that aye fulfills 

Life's meaning as God wills. 



Heart of my Heart 



HERE where the season turns the land to gold, 
Among the fields our feet have known of old, — 
When we were children who would laugh and run, 
Glad little playmates of the wind and sun, — 
Before came toil and care and years went ill, 
And one forgot and one remembered still, 
Heart of my heart, among the old fields here, 
Give me your hands and let me draw you near. 
Heart of my heart. 



93 



Heart of my Heart 

Stars are not truer than your soul is true — 
What need I more of heaven then than you ? 
Flowers are not sweeter than your face is sweet — 
What need I more to make my world complete ? 
O woman nature, love that still endures, 
What strength hath ours that is not born of yours ? 
Heart of my heart, to you, whatever come, 
To you the lead, whose love hath led me home. 
Heart of my heart. 



Witnesses 

i. 

YOU say I do not love you ! — Tell me why, 
When I have gazed a little on your face, 
And then gone forth into the world of men, 
A beauty, neither of the Earth or Sky, 
A glamour, that transforms each common place, 
Attends my spirit then ? 

II. 

You say I do not love you ! — Yet I know 

When I have heard you speak and dwelt upon 

Your words awhile, my heart has gone away 
Filled with strange music, very soft and low, 

A dim companion, touching with sweet tone 
The discords of the day. 



94 



Witnesses 
in. 

You say I do not love you ! — Yet it seems, 

When I have kissed your hand and said farewell, 

A fragrance, sweeter than did flower yet bloom, 
Accompanies my soul and fills, with dreams, 

The sad and sordid streets, where people dwell, 
Dreams of spring's wild perfume. 

Wherefore 

I WOULD not see, yet must behold 
The truth they preach in church and hall ; 
And question so, — Is death then all, 
And life an idle tale that 's told ? 

The myriad wonders art hath wrought 
I deemed eternal as God's love : 
No more than shadows these shall prove, 
And insubstantial as a thought. 

And love and labor, who have gone, 
Hand in close hand, and civilized 
The wilderness, these shall be prized 
No more than if they had not done. 

Then wherefore strive ? Why strain and bend 
Beneath a burden so unjust ? 
Our works are builded out of dust, 
And dust their universal end. 



95 



Pagan 



THE gods, who could loose and bind 
In the long ago, 
The gods, who were stern and kind 
To men below, 
Where shall we seek and find, 
Or, finding, know ? 

Where Greece, with king on king, 

Dreamed in her halls ; 
Where Rome kneeled worshiping, 

The owl now calls, 
And whispering ivies cling 

To mouldering walls. 

They have served, and have passed away 

From the earth and sky, 
And their Creed is a record gray, 

Where the passer-by 
Reads, " Live and be glad to-day, 

For to-morrow ye die." 

And shall it be so, indeed, 

When we are no more, 
That nations to be shall read, — 

As we have before, — 
In the dust of a Christian Creed, 

But pagan lore ? 



96 



(( 



The Fathers of our Fathers" 

Written February 24, 1898, on reading the latest news concerning the 
battleship Maine, blown up in Havana harbor, February 15th. 



I. 

The fathers of our fathers they were men ! — 
What are we who now stand idle while we see our 
seamen slain ? 
Who behold our flag dishonored, and still pause ! 
Are we blind to her duplicity, the treachery of Spain ? 
To the rights, she scorns, of nations and their laws ? 
Let us rise, a mighty people, let us wipe away the stain ! 
Must we wait till she insult us for a cause ? — 

The fathers of our fathers they were men ! 

II. 

The fathers of our fathers they were men ! — 
Had they nursed delay as we do ? had they sat thus deaf 
and dumb, 
With these cowards compromising year by year ? 
Never hearing what they should hear, never saying what 
should come, 
While the courteous mask of Spain still hid a sneer ! 
No ! such news had roused their natures like a rolling 
battle-drum — 
God of earth ! and God of heaven ! do we fear ? — 
The fathers of our fathers they were men ! 



97 



The Fathers of our Fathers 



in. 

The fathers of our fathers they were men ! — 
What are we who are so cautious, never venturing too 
far! 
Shall we, at the cost of honor, still keep peace ? 
While we see the thousands starving and the struggling 
Cuban star, 
And the outraged form of Freedom on her knees ! 
Let our long, steel ocean-bloodhounds, adamantine 
dogs of war, 
Sweep the yellow Spanish panther from the seas ! — 
The fathers of our fathers they were men ! 



9 8 



u 



Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin" 



i. 

BEHOLD ! we have gathered together our 
battleships near and afar ; 
Their decks they are cleared for action, their 
guns they are shotted for war : 
From the East to the West there is hurry, in the 

North and the South a peal 
Of hammers in fort and shipyard, and the clamor 

and clang of steel ; 
And the roar and the rush of engines, and clanking 

of derrick and crane — 
Thou art weighed in the Scales and found wanting, 
the balance of God, O Spain ! 

II. 

Behold ! I have stood on the mountains, and this 

was writ in the sky : — 
' ' She is weighed in the Scales and found wanting, 

the balance God holds on high ! " 
The balance He once weighed Babylon, the Mother 

of Harlots, in : 
One scale holds thy pride and thy power and empire, 

begotten of sin ; 
Heavy with woe and torture, the crimes of a 

thousand years, 
Mortared and welded together with fire and blood 

and tears ; 

99 



u Mene } Mene, Tekel, Uphar szn" 

In the other, for justice and mercy, a blade with 

never a stain, 
Is laid the Sword of Liberty, and the balance dips, 

O Spain ! 

III. 

Summon thy vessels together ! great is thy need 

for these ! — 
Cristobal Colon, Vizcaya, Oquendo, and Maria 

Terese — 
Let them be strong and many, for a vision I had 

by night, 
That the ancient wrongs thou hast done the world 

came howling to the fight ; 
From the New-World shores they gathered, Inca 

and Aztec slain, 
To the Cuban shot but yesterday, and our own 

dead seamen, Spain ! 

IV. 

Summon thy ships together, gather a mighty fleet ! 

For a strong young Nation is arming, that never 
hath known defeat. 

Summon thy ships together, there on thy blood- 
stained sands ! 

For a shadowy army gathers with manacled feet 
and hands, 

A shadowy host of sorrows and shames, too black 
to tell, 



ioo 



u Mene } Mene, Tekel, Up harsin" 

That reach, with their horrible wounds, for thee to 

drag thee down to Hell ; 
A myriad phantoms and spectres, thou warrest 

against in vain — 
Thou art weighed in the Scales and found wanting, 

the balance of God, O Spain ! 



Her Vivien Eyes 



HER Vivien eyes, — beware ! beware ! — 
Though they be stars, a deadly snare 
They set beneath her night of hair. 
Regard them not ! lest, drawing near — 
As sages once in old Chaldee — 
Thou shouldst become a worshiper, 
And they thy evil destiny. 

Her Vivien eyes, — away ! away ! — 
Though they be springs, remorseless they 
Gleam underneath her brow's bright day. 
Turn, turn aside, whate'er the cost ! 
Lest in their deeps thou lures behold, 
Through which thy captive soul were lost, 
As was young Hylas once of old. 

101 



Her Vivien Eyes 

Her Vivien eyes, — take heed ! take heed ! 

Though they be bibles, none may read 

Therein of God or Holy Creed. 

Look, look away ! lest thou be cursed, — 

As Merlin was, romances tell, — 

And in their sorcerous spells immersed, 

Hoping for Heaven thou chance on Hell. 



There Was a Rose 



THERE was a rose in Eden once : it grows 
On Earth now, sweeter for its rare perfume ; 
And Paradise is poorer by one bloom, 
And Earth is richer. In this blossom glows 
More loveliness than old seraglios 
Or courts of kings did ever yet illume : 
More purity, than ever yet had room 
In soul of nun or saint. — O human rose, — 
Who art initial and sweet period of 
My heart's divinest sentence, where I read 
Love, first and last, and in the pauses love ; 
Who art the dear ideal of each deed 
My life aspires by to some high goal, — 
Set in the haunted garden of my soul ! 



The Artist 



IN story books, when I was very young, 
I knew you first, one of the Fairy Race ; 
And then it was your picture took its place, 
Framed in with love's deep gold, and draped and hung 
High in my heart's red room : no song was sung, 
No tale of passion told, I did not grace 
With your associated form and face, 
And intimated charm of touch and tongue. 
As years went on you grew to more and more, 
Until each thing, symbolic to my heart 
Of beauty,— such as honor, truth, and fame, — 
Within the studio of my soul's thought wore 
Your lineaments, whom I, with all my art, 
Strove to embody and to give a name. 



Poetry and Philosophy 

OUT of the past the dim leaves spoke to me 
The thoughts of Pindar with a voice so sweet 
Hyblaean bees seemed swarming my retreat 
Around the reedy well of Poesy. 
I closed the book. Then, knee to neighbor knee, 
Sat with the soul of Plato, to repeat 
Doctrines, till mine seemed some Socratic seat 



103 



Poetry and Philosophy 

High on the summit of Philosophy. 

Around the wave of one Religion taught 

Her first rude children. From the stars that burned 

Above the mountained other, Science learned 

The first vague lessons of the work she wrought. 

Daughters of God, in whom we still behold 

The Age of Iron and the Age of Gold. 



u 



QuoVadis" 



IT is as if imperial trumpets broke 
Again the silence on War's iron height ; 
And Cassar's armored legions marched to fight, 
While Rome, blood-red upon her mountain-yoke, 
Blazed like an awful sunset. At a stroke, 
Again I see the living torches light 
The horrible revels, and the bloated, white, 
Bayed brow of Nero smiling through the smoke : 
And here and there a little band of slaves 
Among dark ruins ; and the form of Paul, 
Bearded and gaunt, expounding still the Word : 
And towards the North the tottering architraves 
Of empire ; and, wild-waving over all, 
The flaming figure of a Gothic sword. 



104 



To a Critic 



SONG hath a catalogue of lovely things 
Thy kind hath oft denied, — whose spite misleads 
The world too often ! — where the poet reads, 
As in a fable, of old envyings, 

Crows, such as thou, which hush the bird that sings, 
Or kill it with their cawings ; thorns and weeds, 
Such as thyself, 'midst which the wind sows seeds 
Of flow'rs, these crush before one blossom swings. 
But here and there the wisdom of a School 
Unknown to these hath often written down 
' Fame " in white ink the future hath turned brown ; 
When every beauty, heaped with ridicule, 
In their ignoble prose, proved their renown, 
Making each famous — as an ass or fool. 



105 



AFTERWORD. 

The old enthusiasms 

Are dead, quite dead, in me ; 

Dead the aspiring spasms 

Of art and poesy, 

That opened magic chasms, 

Once, of wild mystery, 

In youth's rich Araby. 

That opened magic chasms. 

The longing and the care 
Are mine ; and, helplessly, 
The heartache and despair 
For what can never be. 
More than my mortal share 
Of sad mortality , 
It seems, God gives to me, 
More than my mortal share. 

O world ! O time ! O fate ! 

Remorseless trinity ! 

let not your wheel abate 

Its iron rotary ! — 

Turn round ! nor make me wait, 

Bound to it neck and knee, 

Hope's final agony ! — 

Turn round ! nor make me wait. 



106 



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